Caretaker
by eoraptor
Summary: Followup story to "Release" and "Credit"


_**Caretaker**_

By Eoraptor

AN: Kim Possible… Disney… blah blah blah… Rated 13+

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She chewed her lip angrily as she watched the front door of the jail. They were transferring him today, that dirty, murdering drunkard! Justice! That's what they called it?!

Twenty five years for killing him… and not a thing for Rufus or for _her_? This wasn't Justice… He'd killed Kimmie just as sure as he'd killed Ron and Rufus! Twenty Five years of free cable TV, three hot meals a day, a gymnasium and a library for killing three people?!

"Grrrrrnnnnn..."

She was long passed even trying to form words for what this was… all she could do was rant about what it _wasn't._ She was pretty much past the point of forming words at this point all together. Still, Actions spoke louder than words, yes? She'd take care of this.

The long slender rifle was a comfort as she lay prone against it. Her gloved had found an almost sexual thrill as she drew back the bolt. The tips of the black glove on her left hand didn't tremble the slightest as they reached over the gun, slipping one long brass cartridge into place.

With the same cold enjoyment, she slid the bolt forward and down again, a pale ear hearing the mechanisms clicking into place as her nearly white cheek rested on the butt stock.

She had specially modified the bullet herself, carving a cross into the tip to ensure to would fracture on impact and reduce the murder's heart to hamburger, the same way Kimmie's had been. She had them carved the three victims names into the shell casing with her tool kit and polished the whole thing until it shined.

This was a special bullet, meant just for the drunk bastard she saw coming out of the door of the jail. Looking down through the scope, she grinned softly, darkly painted lips parting, white teeth flashing in the afternoon sun. "4900032," his prison jumpsuit red…

Those three round numbers right over his heart took on three faces… begging her to pull the trigger, to give them real justice. Again her black gloved left hand reached up, adjusting the elevation on the scope. It slid away, to the pouch that lay unbuckled at her side, and she slowly dropped her ungloved right index finger over the trigger.

"Don't worry Kimmie, Ron, Rufus… He won't be getting to enjoy the rest of his life while you three died…" This was it. She let out half her breath and eased her thumb against the detent of the safety, clicking it off and watching the three round numbers mark out her target.

Something was wrong… The complex electronic scope she'd purchased with her savings for just this occasion was scrambling. It washed out in a wave of static and she hissed, gritting her white teeth behind the lips she'd painted black.

Then there was a crackle directly above her, and her world went black. Her eyes, so bloodshot from the last three weeks stalking this filthy tinhorn, only registered one green boot on the tar-covered roof next to her head as she lost consciousness.

It was dark when she woke. Her mouth was dry, and tasted like she'd been sucking on a 9 volt battery. Sitting up she looked around, searching for whomever had stopped her claiming Justice.

She sighed heavily and rubbed her face with the black glove of her left hand, one of the two Kim had given her when she turned fourteen last year. Real Kim Possible mission gloves, the ones left over when Kim had gotten her new outfit.

Looking down, groaned. There, in the dim light of the setting sun, she saw Nana's old M-14 service rifle, the one she had taken down from the mantle at the ranch. It had been disassembled, and the bullet she had carefully crafted was… well… it wasn't a bullet anymore. It was a melted slag of lead and brass sitting next to the carefully disassembled rifle.

She let out a frustrated scream into the dusk sky, and it echoed back to her around the roof. Whoever had interfered with her quest for Justice had not even left a footprint where she'd seen that boot before passing out.

But apparently they had left a note. It lay on the asphalt of the roof, held in place by the weight of the other black glove Kim had given her. Biting her lower lip with unspeakable frustration, she picked it up and eyed it. The mint green paper contrasted the elegant cursive writing as she read.

"_Freckles,_

_Kimmie gave you these gloves for a reason. _

_She knew you'd wear them and fight the bad guys just like her._

_Don't ruin your name by doing something you know she'd never stand for._

_I know these old gloves well, trust me, they've been across my chin a time or two._

_They've still got life left in them, Kim's life._

_And as long as you do good with them, it doesn't matter what all the drunks, and lawyers, and prisons in the world do, because Kim and Ron and that little rat of theirs will still be alive in you. _

_Take good care of them._

_Signed,_

_S."_

She sighed, overwhelmed with emotions. A few tears spattered the light green note as she tried to hold on to her righteous anger at that drunk, who was now long gone to some prison and out of her reach. But the anger was falling away.

"S." was right. As long as she was a caretaker to the Possible name, and those simple black gloves, it didn't really matter. The bad guy was in prison, and that was all Kim and Ron and Rufus ever wanted. And there were still other bad guys out there. Bad guys who still feared the name Possible.

And Joss Possible wasn't about to let them think they'd get out of it with something as simple as a bullet when she had two good fists to use.

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_AN: again, the story of Kim and Ron lives on beyond them. Another impulse story, again told from one person's viewpoint. Take care of what people give you, because a little part of them lives on inside._


End file.
